give thanks

Today it is going to be 48 and rainy. This is great snow patrol.

A building exploded last week in the district I live in. Nobody died. Some called it a "miracle."

Husband and wife Derek Webb and Sandra McCraken released their collaborative Ampersand EP. You can listen to it online. Amazing couple and music.

So, far, The Year of Living Biblically makes me laugh. And think. Which are both good for the soul.

The Diving Bell and the Butterfly is incredible; a film that will stick. One point for France. And it's at the cheap theater, one of my favorite places in GR.

fools or heroes?

Women, to measure the will of a man, test him with furniture (preferably the kind you don’t care about). I’ll explain.

Last night was an epic adventure. In order to make room for new living room furniture a friend is letting us borrow, we were met with the challenge of fitting an old 93-inch L-couch through a very narrow staircase into the basement. We had struggled to get the baby green monster down the staircase 18 months ago, and she is two feet shorter.

First, Barry and I tried the standard way. Failure. Then we flipped it. Nope. Then we went outside. Hope. Then we got it stuck worse. Anger. Then we got it unstuck. Jubilation. Then we unscrewed the screen door and threw it to the ground in haste. Take that. Then we redefined what stuck means. _____.

So we yelled for Tingley, third-party assistance, back-up. Help.

Tingley wisely pointed out how foolish we were for even trying. But then he evaluated the situation and caught our vision: this would be a conquest. Sitting on the couch in the basement would be like a pile of stones in the middle of a river.

We had already gone too far.

There was no turning back.

It was too much fun.

Lots of laughter.

It looked like this.

After sending Barry, our resident brute, to the back for maximized pushing power, we nearly busted the couch in two, which would’ve been jive, because we would’ve gotten it into the basement. This isn’t about comfort, or preserving the dry wall.

Those are temporary things. This is about something greater.

One of the hind couch legs was caught on the outside siding. Like a surgeon, Tingley cut off the fabric to reveal our nemesis, a tangled mess of wood and glue. He hit it with a hammer. “We need a saw,” Tingley said. Brilliant. Barry opened the battery-powered circular saw he received for Christmas and started blazing. The battery died. Tingley charged it. Brilliant.

Barry sawed away.

Then hit it with a hammer. Victory.

After a short celebration of the fall of the hind leg, we pushed. And we won.

Most wouldn’t have attempted to fit the couch in the basement. However, most wouldn’t be willing to sacrifice a leg and pieces of drywall for the task.

It reminded me of the Giants Super Bowl victory over the undefeated Patriots: on the final drive, Eli somehow gets away from the clutches of the Pats, lofts a prayer in the form of a football, and David Tyree somehow catches it in tight coverage, leverages it against his head while crashing to the earth.

Well, maybe not that intense.

Fools or heroes? The line is blurry. But it was epic in our world.

doorbell

Somebody rang my doorbell tonight.

Drifting to sleep. Zing. Awake. Stare at the red letters on the clock. 11:14.

Cell phone on silent. Open. No missed calls. Close.

All sorts of thoughts collide. Who could it be?

The homeless man who stops by asking to rake and shovel for $?

A friend? Revelers? (Extremely bold) robbers?

Glance out the window. No cars. No lights.

Think about possible defense items in the house. Blank.

Nalgene ninja? Ah. Nah.

Put on running sweats and pull gray hoodie over my head.

Open my eyes. Complete darkness.

(I put the hoodie on backwards. Semi-startling, wholly funny.)

Creep down wooden stairs. Peek around the corner.

Nothing. Nobody. Nada.

It’s probably been too long since (he/she/they) rang it.

But who?

Get up close to the door. Peer around. See human tracks in the knee-deep snow between road and sidewalk. Were those tracks there before?

Thoughts still colliding.

Check lock. Secure.

Walk upstairs. Dismantle clothing. Hop in bed.

Hear funny noises. Daydream about robbers. Daydream about life.

Decide it’s [life] too exciting to be sleeping. Second night in a row with eager insomnia.

Go into room with doorbell.*

Check email. Write email. Post very odd blog.

*(It’s no ordinary doorbell either. It's made of plastic and eats 9 volt batteries, but here’s no rock loud enough to drown out its signature song.)

rock to record in zim: friday, march 14

Courier is playing "Rock to Record in Zim," a benefit concert to support our upcoming music CD recording project in Zimbabwe, Africa in April 2008. The project will bring Zimbabwe's music to the States, with the CD proceeds going back toward humanitarian efforts in Zimbabwe. I’ll be on the trip, as well as Korn, our bassist.

When: Friday, March 14 at 7 p.m.

Where:

Greenhouse
1513 Fulton St E
Grand Rapids, MI 49506

Cost: The cover is $5 (additional donations accepted), with all proceeds going toward the April 2008 trip. More bands to come...thanks for the support and hope to see you there! If you're interested in helping out with the trip, let me know.

Listen to Courier online at www.myspace.com/courierband.

Watch videos from the last trip at www.youtube.com/vitalconnections.

back on the bus

A car like mine gives birth to many life lessons.

The 1996 VW Jetta has many features that may detract superficial women, like three hubcaps, virtually no shocks, no cruise, broken windshield wipers, missing left-front speaker and a collection of fun mechanical noises.

As Rachel put it, “Your car sounds like its farting.”

But I love her and intentionally bought her with body damage. We’ve trudged through life together, like the summer she died in Minneapolis when I was dressed in shirt and tie, preparing to barge into some high-brow PR place demanding an internship.

Instead I spent five weeks on a couch, unemployed and intern-less before caving in and working at Costco, where I lied to get a job and climbed the corporate ladder from put-soccer-mom’s-things-into-boxes to booze salesman extraordinaire.

That summer we towed the Jetta twice, the first 15 minutes after Harry called on a Friday morning and told me I had to choose a repair shop immediately—the tow truck was in route. I chose a repair chain founded on a king who turns stuff into gold, where they told me they had no idea what was wrong, but they’d be happy to look around for $90/hour.

Thanks, but no thanks.

So it’s almost as if I closed my eyes and pointed in the super sized phone book, landing on a foreign car repair place somewhere in Minneapolis. The tow truck driver and I arrived in what appeared to be a less-than-welcoming portion of town, with two old hippie-influenced Volkswagen vans parked in the driveway.

It shocked me that alternative smoke wasn’t pouring from the windows.

After trying to hot wire the car (seriously), the mechanic, bearded and Cheech-and-Chong influenced, as expected, told me it was the fuel pump. Naturally, being a holiday weekend, it would be Tuesday until she was ready to roll again.

“How do I get home?” I asked. He looked, pointed, and said, “The bus stop is over there.” There was very little I knew about Minneapolis, as a member of the upper Michigan artic persuasion, the bus stop was very confusing and intimidating.

When I arrived, a woman with a number of children was there, sitting on the bench. Her boy then dropped his pants to his ankles and began peeing on a tree.

Such freedom.

The brakes on the bus hissed, and I got on, looking at the bus driver like we were from different planets. “Uh, downtown?” I asked. Handing him some bills, he did his thing and I received my ticket, and sat paranoid on the bus as the city passed by.

Knowing which street I lived on, but not exactly its location, I evaluated the city as a bird flies, recognized certain skyscrapers, then exited the bus at a familiar location, close to the place where I saw a photo of Kirby Puckett, my now-deceased childhood baseball hero, plastered on the front page of the Star Tribune newsstand for sexually harassing women.

I still blame the ’94 strike for killing baseball, and Kirby’s unfortunate antics for opening my eyes to the dangers of celebrity and putting mortals on pedestals.

So I exited the bus, and ended up walking a mile to our apartment, where I proceeded to again take my rightful place on the blown-out couch. On Tuesday, Harry brought me to the shop, and said something like, “Dude, you should not be over here.”

The mechanic offered me the old fuel pump, which I took for some odd reason and probably tossed in a dumpster. When he wouldn’t accept checks from my new bank account, he threatened to keep the car. “I’m serious, my parents just put money in the account, the check is good,” I pleaded.

“I tell you what. If you come back with $300 in cash, I’ll give you your car,” he said. Next thing I know I’m at the gas station hoping the daily limit on my ATM card will allow it, and it does. When I hand him the cash, I get my keys and some sort of receipt that suggests some form of tax evasion is happening.

Its stories like this where the Jetta teaches me things about life.

Now, it is sad to report that after nearly four years in the vicinity of this city, I’ve yet to take public transport, minus a late-night cab ride. Today was my day.

Well-dressed (oddly enough, I bought the shirt I’m wearing for 25 cents from a thrift store in Minneapolis) in black shoes, headed to a high-brow marketing event where people act important, I turn the key in the ignition.

Nothing. Then the alarm goes off. I walk around the car to shut it off and go inside, feeling defeated. I’ve got 15 minutes to get downtown. So I call a couple friends. Nothing. Business partner is out of the office today. Such karma.

Wait, the bus. Yes, the bus.

Just like five years ago, the last time I needed the bus in the States. I’ve ridden nearly everything—buses, trains, Cessna’s, ferries, taxis, VW bugs, airplanes, hallowed out canoes, you name it—in various places around the world, but I’ve never had to use the public bus in a metropolitan city I’ve lived in for four years?

Something is wrong. After going to the ATM, I start running (which quickly turns into a fast walk) down snowy streets, leather gloves and leather folder in hand, to the corner grocery store I’ve been to countless times.

A bus sign. I call the bus station and ask the receptionist when it’s going downtown. 10 minutes. Perfect. A woman waiting with me who is slightly slow and trying to zip up her jacket in the cold, kindly tells me that I can purchase a 10 ride pass for $10, but I must tell the driver about my plans.

The brakes hiss. Murphy’s Law kicks in when I attempt to make the pass purchase, my $10 bill looks like it’s been hanging out in washing machines for six months. Finally, after a delay, imagining all eyes are on me, I get my pass, put it in the wrong way, the driver corrects me, and I sit down.

This was only a bus ride, but it says something about who I think I am, the opportunities I’ve been blessed with, and the strong, wicked divisions that still exist in this land, most often involving income, race, social status, education—persecution of which I am aware of, but acutely oblivious to, most of the time.

On top of it all, I put on my best clothes to go to this meeting to essentially try and impress people, where a former Starbucks executive tells a room full of us who think we are important about how a coffee chain is taking over the world, from one to 15,000 locations in 36 years.

We applaud his intelligence, his wit, his strategies, his ability to make money with add-ons and crappy CDs and for ultimately, turning a cup of coffee into a $4.50 experience.

And after it’s all over, everyone exits the trendy bar via the $8 parking ramp in SUVs and Mercedes and BMWs, and I find myself back on the bus, wondering why all these divisions have to be.

zimbabwe worship project

Africa. A continent ridden with political uproar, sickness, death, poverty, instability, endless needs.

Initially, it was hard to pin down why I stepped foot onto red earth in December, yet God often simply asks us to put one foot in front of the other. Then we arrived. What we discovered was an undeniably anointed spirit of worship.

Authentic worship, unlike any previous experience, arose despite daily struggles for food, water, work—everyday luxuries virtually non-existent in country where everything’s collapsed.

During our first weekend in Zimbabwe, we hosted a conference for seventy-five young Zimbabwean leaders: today’s movers-and-shakers. Truth, worship, unity, restoration, encouragement, peace and kindness encompassed us. It’s as if these people are our kindred spirits 8,000 miles away.

Talking at our team house after the conference, I asked Craig and Korn, “What if we recorded a worship CD of their music?” The idea was birthed a month before the trip, but I kept silent. Korn, a good friend, audio engineer and bass player in our band, said, “I’ve been thinking about that for a year.”

Interesting.

The next day, four of us are in Simon’s diesel repair and wrecker shop, talking about the week ahead. As we’re about to leave, we ask Simon, a Zimbabwean worship leader, about recording possibilities. “Sit down,” he said, quite seriously. “I’ve had this on my heart for the past year.”

Really interesting.

Three people with the same inkling, a fourth with the heart, connections and resources, sitting in a mechanic’s shop in one of the world’s most desperate countries? It’s not a strange coincidence; this is God’s work. “If God is behind it, it won’t fail,” Craig said.

Logistics confirmed, on April 2-16, we’ll return to Zimbabwe to host a series of worship nights, one at the youth conference, three nights in churches, including Mbare, the heart of the poorest and most historically racially-charged places in the country.

The worship sessions will have professional audio production and HD video to capture the experience. When the CD(s) are released in the U.S. (and the world through online global music distribution), the financial proceeds will go toward urgent needs in Zim, from basic necessities to micro-lending, from children’s ministry to a group house of orphaned boys taken off the streets and turned into men.

In another twist of God’s good graces, my father, Pastor Mike, will be joining us on this trip as a teacher. It promises to be an amazing shared experience as father and son, his first trip to Africa, and perhaps a culmination of my own prodigal return to the faith he’s walked so diligently on earth, (likely grimacing as I’ve made mistakes coming into my own).

Zimbabwe will be blessed with his teaching, his integrity, his wisdom.

In January, I traveled to the Amazon jungle in Ecuador on a mission trip to the Waodani Indians, the once-savage trip made famous for killing five missionaries in 1956 and converting to Christianity in the aftermath. I was invited as a videographer, helping to tell how the global church can support people 100 miles deep in the remote rainforest.

We don’t know what God’s going to do next; life in the Spirit is exciting. As Elizabeth Elliot wrote in Through Gates of Splendor about her martyred husband Jim, who discovered “the Book of all books is the Bible, and that to follow its teaching is not necessarily to live a cloistered, dull life.”

The Christian life doesn’t always mean globetrotting every few months, but it does mean continual surrender to the One who is our everything.

It’s terribly cliché to tell you prayer is more important than money, but I’m an entrepreneur living on grace, not reason, over the past two years. The Ecuador trip came up only ten days before I stepped on the plane, after asking my church for financial support, the rest of the funds came in without me having to ask.

(Angel investors, perhaps?) God is our Provider. Prayer is important.

So, if you have the means, I humbly ask for financial support, the Africa trip is $2,500. In full disclosure, my company will be producing the Zimbabwe Worship Project alongside Vital Connections. We’re planning to expand into audio production, using the audio equipment from this project in the future. However, it’s Kingdom work. The details involve simply creating and naming things.

I pray I’m not perceived as a wild-card who only comes around when he’s looking for cash for world travels. Please accept my apologies for the poor communication over the past months—I should’ve penned hand-written thank you notes, but life in America can swallow a man in responsibility. Please know your prayers and financial gifts are authentically appreciated.

• Pray for the team: Mike, Korn, Teresa, Michelle, Amy, Kim, Jo, Corky, Aaron.
• Pray for the worship nights: Authentic worship, technical graces, God’s anointing.
• Pray for Kingdom bridges between Zim and the rest of the world.
• Pray the Zimbabwe Worship Project would plant seeds of change around the globe.

You can view three videos of our last trip on www.YouTube.com/VitalConnections.

If you’re interested in supporting the trip financially or with resources for Zim, please email me at aaroncarriere [at] gmail.com.

community buzz

Community is a church buzz word, along with other hip adjectives.

But some communities blow past ideas and enter into reality. On Friday night, Leila, pregnant and due to have her first baby in mid-March, experienced early contractions and was rushed to the hospital, where she stayed overnight, now on bed rest for two weeks.

Immediately, her friend emailed our community, and this morning, fifteen people have surrounded Chris and Leila with meals while she’s at home, still more praying and offering support. It seems simple, but it is actually quite profound, when people say, “Here I am, send me.”

The Fellowship of the Believers

“They devoted themselves to the apostles' teaching and to the fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer. Everyone was filled with awe, and many wonders and miraculous signs were done by the apostles. All the believers were together and had everything in common. Selling their possessions and goods, they gave to anyone as he had need. Every day they continued to meet together in the temple courts. They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, praising God and enjoying the favor of all the people. And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved.” (Acts 2:42-47)

grace and winter

The glare of the sun bounces off chairs and snow enough to make me squint. A tall cup of decaf coffee has grown cold to my left; a microwave stares at me from five feet further. After laboring over business plans involving too many details for a macro-thinker, the next task involves writing promotional text for a book refuting bestselling books written by atheists calling the very existence of God foolish.

Perhaps decaf wasn’t the proper choice, but the jungle bacteria forced me to temporarily give up caffeine, and I’m thinking of sticking to it. There is nothing grandiose to say here, but in this coffee shop, it’s a refreshing view of life as it really is: Women with drooling babies, an old man with steaming take-out food and a small cup of coffee smiling at said babies, office professionals staring at computer screens, young lovers learning in toward each other, sharing headphones.

The south room is full of smoke and hearts taped to windows, simultaneously celebrating St. Valentine’s Day and this shops’ 15^th anniversary. Life inside a house all day laboring over a laptop is not life as it is intended, but today’s planning involves a collaborative effort to escape the clutches of the work-from-home blessing and curse. A friend was surprised to hear I’m up before 8 a.m.

Misinformation and assumptions abound about the nature of “freedom.”

People are rather sad during this month of February; the weather seems to be taking out its vengeance on our people, bringing sickness and delaying the fast-approaching spring, hoping to hold it back.

In some ways I feel trapped by the weather, growing tired of not being able to go anywhere without having an accomplice to push the car out of the one-way street ditches, where effective plowing is impossible and bald tires manufacture icy holes, successfully nabbing three cars to date, like a frozen Venus fly trap that eats cars.

Who knows what the Groundhog did this year, but the sun has shone its face today, an unexpected surprise from the never-ending gray. This morning I awoke and put on snow pants, a heavy jacket and gloves, and a blue hat my parents bought me from Norway. This is good, as I didn’t even go outside once on Sunday, but it still didn’t persuade me that a shower was necessary today. The house is too cold for sweat.

While listening to Genesis (the book), I shoveled and added salt to our dangerous steps that tackled my roommate yesterday morning. Then I walked snowy streets to the park while the sun made itself known to the trees and I. A shaggy dog met me in the middle of the street, walking clumsily until its owner barged out her front door calling its name.

In the park, standing in two feet of frozen white, beauty was found in the very snow that has caused so many troubles and cancellations. On the walk to the shop this afternoon, I listened to “Grace,” a U2 song I recently discovered (it was released in 2000):

Grace
She takes the blame
She covers the shame
Removes the stain
It could be her name

Grace
It's a name for a girl
It's also a thought that
Changed the world

And when she walks on the street
You can hear the strings
Grace finds goodness
In everything

Grace
She's got the walk
Not on a wrapper on chalk
She's got the time to talk

She travels outside
Of karma, karma
She travels outside
Of karma

When she goes to work
You can hear the strings
Grace finds beauty
In everything

Grace
She carries a world on her hips
No champagne flute for her lips
No twirls or skips
Between her fingertips

She carries a pearl
In perfect condition
What once was hers
What once was friction
What left a mark
No longer stains

Because grace makes beauty
Out of ugly things

Grace finds beauty
In everything

Grace finds goodness
In everything

the season of repent

Please accept my apologies for that dramatic, self-absorbed post (see below). After further reasoning, the following sticks out:

1. I am alive.

2. The antibiotics were FREE, as well as the prescription. In a society where I am essentially living outside the norm, I was provided for in abundance. In many places in the world, I wouldn’t even have access to proper medication, and if I did, it would probably cost a lot.

3. I own a car. This is a luxury few share.

4. I own a cell phone so people can call me when they need me.

5. I own a toothbrush and have clean, cold water, all the time.

the season of vent

Yesterday I was told I am some sort of health risk.

It seems as if little things have snowballed since I’ve returned to the knowledge age. While my car is fixed and drivable, I manage to get it stuck on a three degree decline in deep snow and ice, courtesy of the never-ending blizzards of late.

After wildly rocking and revving the engine in pursuit of freedom, the car is wedged between the neighbor’s driveway and our street, nearly knocking over their blue-but-green recycling bin and tearing up precious parking real estate in process.

The plow driver, comfortable in his large and powerful truck, leans out the window and says, “What a mess, huh?” without offering help, as I’m shoveling madly and cursing internally, until Andrew runs down the street like a hero in the night to lend relief.

I creep down Wealthy to the local gas station, flooring the car in reverse just to dock it at the fuel source. Then it’s back on dicey roads for twenty five minutes to pick up more drugs to tame this resilient creature within.

Trying to get extra sleep, at 11 bells, one hour into hibernation, the cell phone rings needlessly, and at midnight, I awake suddenly and immediately scamper to the bathroom, where again, on hands and knees, vomit pours from my mouth until the stomach is empty and only the taste of bitterness remains.

I brush my teeth and return to bed, angry, thrashing to find comfort, wondering why I am full of bacteria and the world around me seems to be crumbling in little, collectively annoying rhythms.

And at this point, it is fair to say, I am wrestling with God.

Last night
Curled in a fetal position

Like an infant
With an empty stomach

Crying for mother’s milk
I cry to God

To steal this disease
Consuming body

Robbing sleep
Like a plague of old

Heal, God, heal.

post jungle living

It's been a wild week away from the Amazon.

Thursday was a work crisis. Friday morning arrived with a snowstorm and broken-down car. Saturday illuminated that my living parasite friend needed outside persuasion. The Sabbath was rest (and an amazing Super Bowl). Monday brought much-needed antibiotics. Last night had me hugging porcelain at 3:30 a.m.

Today is Tuesday, and the mini-crises have seemed to quell. The car has more life, as does the business, and despite all the systems I am (foolishly) unable to subscribe to (health insurance, doctors, etc.), the jungle funk appears to be on its last leg (perhaps legs is more appropriate).

Why do I write about this?

It's not about me, or little difficulties or hardships--these events are minor in the big picture. We continuously face troubles, every day.

But we must learn to cultivate attentiveness and awareness, recognizing things for what they are. These events were not coincidences or out-of-the-ordinary--if we are people who believe that "everything is spiritual," we need eyes to see it for what it is, and know that ultimately, He's got the whole wide world in His hands.

the story will be told

To face challenges is no surprise, but the analogy of the Devil prowling around like a lion has greater significance in the jungle, staring down at a fresh Jaguar track.

On the plane ride home I penned:

We are closing in on Chicago, and when the wheels touch land, the modern world greets me again.

I think of Francis’ statement in Zimbabwe, a young worship leader who realizes we are not of this world; we are citizens of Heaven and children of the Almighty God. “Our communication is upstairs,” Francis said.

I smile thinking of Simon’s story when Francis showed up long ago to lead worship dressed like Michael Jackson, and Simon having to help re-center him. Isn’t that the story of us all? Wanting credit for what God has done?

God, center us.

Paul knew of this temptation, first made popular by Adam and Eve in the once-perfect Garden. He wrote in Galatians 6:14, “May I never boast except in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, through which the world has been crucified to me, and I to the world.”

Paul had to be blinded in order to see; Stephen had to stick his hands into the dripping wounds of the risen Christ; Mincaye had to kill first and ask questions later; Jonah had to be eaten by a whale; Job got smoked; Peter had to deny; Abraham seeded an enemy nation; Moses died short of the Promised Land; David fornicated and murdered.

In the aftermath, a common thread remains—the reversal of focus from the desires of man to the desires of God, a humbling before the LORD, followed by His lifting up.

In my limited experiences returning from times where God has moved mightily, distractions abound, trying to keep stories bottled up and silent, untold. This has been no exception, but we need eyes to recognize distractions for what they are, for our battle is not against flesh and blood, a leaky Volkswagen Jetta or business difficulties (Ephesians 6:11-13).

Distractions will fade away, and the story will be told.